confessions of a [former stay-at-home] punk rock dad and all things in between (or is that inbetween?)

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Thursday, September 15, 2005

Through The Pores

I am sick.

Stuffy nose. Congested head. Fever. Cough.

And when I am sick, I get a junkie's sweet tooth.

I want salt and sugar; I want potato chips and starburts; twix bars and kalamata olives.

Junk food. Just give me junk food.

I once worked with this ex-junkie. She was a courier with me in DC back in the late '80s. She told me she could smell a junkie a mile away; could smell the cut oozing through their pores. The body's way to extract the poison ebbing through it's system.

I can smell myself today. I could shower twice a day during times like this and still smell the infection, seeping from my skin. I burn incense. Make potpourri. Spray air freshener. Nothing covers the smell. I change my dampened shirts several times a night. My pillow cases as well.

I had a coughing attack last night. Coughed so hard that I fell into a dry heave jag - I'd do anything just to catch my breath before the next wave hit. Made some lemon tea with honey and laid on the couch. Watched late night television.

Was duly impressed by Bryan Adams concert piped in from Ireland. Yes. That Bryan Adams. Mr. Cut's Like A Knife. The band played as a three-piece w/ Adams mostly handling the bass duties. His guitar player was a real scorcher. Fuck. I kept going back to it. I flicked between that and rock start-like illusionist Criss Angel. Now that guy is out there, man. Out there.

I came to the conclusion that late night tv is so much better then daytime tv. But late night tv is best enjoyed under the storm of sickness, when you are too tired to care about it all. Or hopped up on a handful of your favorite street drugs.